


Seashore Perspectives

by it_rains_and_it_pours



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: Fluff, Freeform, M/M, Oneshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 07:52:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6415213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/it_rains_and_it_pours/pseuds/it_rains_and_it_pours
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I would sit with him on the shoreline, sifting through the washed up wreckages of misfit shells and broken pebbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seashore Perspectives

**Author's Note:**

> Posted originally on FicWad in March 2012. There are no names mentioned in the story but I wrote it from Gerard's point of view about Frank.

He'd always loved the beach like this; when we were the only two wandering along the shore, sunrise shimmering on the salty waves that crashed gently to the gritty sand, washing over the whelks and shells embedded in it, as the pale, early morning sun peaked on the horizon, spilling across the ocean and making the whole of it glitter with brand new perspectives. 

I loved it too. But that was more because I loved him on the beach like this; inspired, enthralled, content. With the salty breeze whipping his hair, tangled, into his shining eyes, his hand warm and calloused in mine, smile like a thousand brand new, unchipped seashells, I loved him the way I couldn't in the staining grind of everyday life. Here, I could breathe it- softly, calmly; letting the lonely sun on salt wisp on my tongue. 

It was only a rugged, wild Jersey beach; gulls soaring overhead across the streaked, powder-blue sky reflected in the tentatively sparkling sea; pale yellow sand that sparkling with crushed shells and salty grit like it was brand new beneath our winding feet, not yet imprinted with the heavy tread of a day. It was the only way we'd ever seen it- the uninhabited beauty of its loneliness in the jagged rocks and powdery sand- and the feeling we were the only two people in the world. I think that's what made it so beautiful. 

We'd come and sit on the shoreline as the cold, clear waves washed over our feet and the ocean clarity seeped coldly into ends of our jeans. Sitting side by side, we'd just talk softly into the pale gold new day, words opaque wisps in the seaside air, fingers intertwined.

He liked watching the sun rise above the tumbling waves, because he said they would never do so in exactly the same way again, and that was amazing- he wanted to drink in as much of the world's irregular, imperfect beauty as he could. So we'd huddle up together and he'd brush the wisps of windswept hair out of my eyes, fingertips cold and gritty with encrusted sand- and I could almost taste the salty freedom on his skin. 

I wanted to drink in as much of the world's irregular, imperfect beauty too- but to me, that wasn't the sunrise or the ocean. It was him; fluctuating, changing, loving, hating, being. It was simply how he existed. Like the ocean. 

But there, he always looked so free, so simple- there on the beach with the dawn rays wavering on the water and the gulls wheeling above the sky- utterly different to the defiant, reckless person he was in day-to-day life. His harshly dyed hair was ruffled and tangled with the salty breeze, softening his face, his usually pallid cheeks were scraped gently pink with the cold, his smile was a lot softer, a lot purer, tugging at the corners of his mouth. And his eyes were brilliant, illuminated, elated, with the golden freedom that sparkled on the grainy, damp sand and shimmered on the rush of the saltine waves. 

There, waves breaking onto the sand, soft, grey, foamy; he embodied everything of person I'd fallen in love with.

It made me feel free, too- sitting with him there. When I was with him on the shoreline, sifting through the washed up wreckages of misfit shells and broken pebbles, I didn't feel trapped by social status or society or ability. I simply existed; in the breeze, in the granules of sand being blown like shoreline blowflies across the rugged, rocky beach; in the watery rays of the rising sun seeping tentatively out across the sky. 

But I existed most of all in the gritty gold brilliance of his eyes. 

When his eyes shone like that and the sun was wavering on the horizon, gently breaking out across the rolling, soft clear waves of salt and turbulence and ocean, he'd tell me things. Not the kind of everyday things we talked about usually; things that really meant things- things beyond words- things that made me see the darker world in a whole new way; a softer, more salty way, edged with seashells and gull feathers and clouds. 

He was fascinated in the way before the sun rose, the sky would be clear; as colourless as the waves lapping out across the damp granules of sand- he said it was like one of my canvases back home, waiting to be painted on. 

That's what life was, he told me- an unpainted canvas; our sunrises on the beach, where our interlinked hands tasted of tears that weren't our own- and our perspectives were laid out on the sand beside us in mismatched pebbles. 

He once told me that pebbles were like people, like their perspectives; some are smoothed and perfected by the sea, while some are broken and wrecked in the turmoil; they refuse to be changed by the waves- and then all they have left to do is collapse gritty glare of the sand to crumble. 

The unmatched pebbles are us, and the sea is the world; everyone starts out the same- the world will always make some of us- parts of us- shatter. 

I knew I'd shatter without him; without our mornings on the wild, windswept beach. So I looked at the waves; the shore; the gulls; and basked in every second of it the way I basked in every second of him. The brand new perspectives glittering on the unbroken waves- their irregular, imperfect beauty while his fingers were curled into my palm. 

But we couldn't stay on the beach forever, or the sun would rise completely and we'd skip to the end of the story before it had even begun. 

Instead, before the rays got too high in the clouds, we'd meander lullingly back along the shell-strewn shoreline, hand in hand, smiling at each other, looping our arms round each other easily, laughingly, lovingly, in the rugged, windswept loneliness.

 

Every day, we'd walk off together into the sunrise. Walking off into the sunrise is so much better than walking off into the sunset, because it's not an ending- the sunrise is teeming full of possibilities and perspectives, just waiting to be washed up on the shore.


End file.
